


Yuri Plisetsky and the Leroy Job

by lily_winterwood, Morgen32



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (but with the serial numbers filed off), Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Artemis Fowl AU, Criminal Masterminds, Fae & Fairies, Gen, IT'S MY UNIVERSE NOW I DO WHAT I WANT, Rated Teen for Fowl Language, Teenage Criminal Genius Yuri Plisetsky, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-06 19:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17350985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_winterwood/pseuds/lily_winterwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgen32/pseuds/Morgen32
Summary: So this is the bit where you hear a record scratch, followed by me wondering how I got into this situation. Don’t be stupid, I know exactly how I got here. A little over 24 hours ago, I was in the middle of a bank heist in Geneva. Maybe we can start there. (Artemis Fowl AU)A piece forMorning Sun, Moonless Night. Done in collaboration withMorgen.





	Yuri Plisetsky and the Leroy Job

Marseilles isn’t supposed to be this complicated.

Of course, that might be wishful thinking, considering my last trip here wasn’t for anything illegal at all, but I’m pretty sure the average criminal mastermind just pops down here, collects some laundered cash, buys a boat, and holds a cruise of the Mediterranean during which black market trades can surreptitiously be made. I bet they wouldn’t have to deal with a bunch of stupid fairies in catsuits.

I’m not being crass. I mean literal fairies. Except not _really_ , because one of them is supposed to be some sort of Japanese angel and the other smells like a Chiquita factory explosion, but they said they were unseelie agents, so they’re basically fairies in catsuits. This is exactly the sort of situation that requires one to get a bodyguard, and technically my dedushka did hire one for me, except he’s useless, decrepit, and currently staring at the Japanese one like he’s trying to figure out whether to flirt or flee.

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” asks my stupid bodyguard. According to his resume, Viktor Nikiforov is retired Russian Intelligence and has protected the lives of numerous heads of state, and here he is making bloody _goo-goo_ eyes at a fairy in a catsuit. Who actually _has_ a gun. Which he’s pointing directly at us. Why do fairies need guns anyway?

“We just want to ask you two a couple questions,” the Japanese one says, scowling. He’s wearing glasses, and I’ve watched enough spy movies to know that’s probably someone else’s visual feed. I’d make a lunge, except the two of them look like they mean business about shooting, so maybe that’s not the best idea.

“You could have asked them without pointing a gun in my face,” I tell them. The Japanese one only raises an eyebrow before looking pointedly at the black unmarked case in my arms.

“What did you do with the gold?” he demands.

So this is the bit where you hear a record scratch, followed by me wondering how I got into this situation. Don’t be stupid, I know exactly how I got here. A little over 24 hours ago, I was in the middle of a bank heist in Geneva. Maybe we can start there.

* * *

A little over 24 hours ago, Viktor and I were at the Banque Rittberger in Geneva. The Banque Rittberger is one of the most secure banks in the world, which of course makes it an ideal repository for precious things, and an obvious target for people who want to steal them.

There are a couple things about the Banque Rittberger. They have pressure pads and laser security in their most secure vaults, all hidden behind doors encrypted with the latest technology. They have x-ray scanners for bags and metal detectors that beep at _braces_. And they’ve got cameras covering almost every available surface of every vault and corridor. They mean business, which means Viktor and I have to do business.

Thankfully, my late dad’s corporation, Agape, has just enough resources and connections to create a fake telecom company hoping to store a bunch of cellphone prototypes in lead-lined cases at the Banque Rittberger, so Viktor and I were able to get through the scanners and metal detectors and access the vaults. The next thing was to get through the security of the vault _next door_ to us, as it contained what we were looking for: JJ Leroy’s family gold, which it turns out is what these ‘unseelie agents’ are looking for.

You know, it probably should’ve occured to me that there must be a reason why the Leroy vault is laughably unguarded compared to most at Banque Rittberger. I probably should have wondered about the short amount of time it took for me to disable the security in their vault, switch out the gold with the lead, and get back to my spot outside ours while Viktor distracted the guards with his favourite suburban-mom ‘take me to your manager’ act. And I probably should’ve taken our fence a bit more seriously when he looked at the stupid ‘JJ’ engravings on the ingots and said we were dealing with something more serious than a loudmouth trust fund asshole who needed to be taken down a couple pegs, but at the time I was coasting on the high of having stolen shit out of the Banque Rittberger in broad daylight, and I didn’t listen to him.

So now fast-forward back to a back alley in Marseilles, staring down the barrel of guns wielded by fairies. Not exactly how I want to go, but my parents didn’t ask politely to be in a car accident, either.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I tell the Japanese one.

“What’s in the case?” he asks, eyes narrowed. Probably expecting a bomb or something worse. I roll my eyes but keep my hands raised.

“Not gold,” I reply. The other fairy, the one that smells like bananas, comes over and takes the case, handling it like he’s expecting a bomb to go off.

“It’s a viola, Yuuri,” he remarks after a moment, pushing the case back into my hands. I roll my eyes; did they think I’d be stupidly running around Marseilles with a suitcase of money?

“What exactly are you?” I ask. He smiles in a way that reminds me of the sharks at the Oceanarium in Saint Petersburg.

“Phichit Chulanont,” he says. “ _What_ I am should be saved for a better location. Yuuri, the rift?”

“Rift?” I ask, as Yuuri — or Porky, as I refuse to share a name with a fairy cop, of all people — takes out what looks like a giant pair of scissors. Of course the rift means ‘cutting the fabric of reality’. I don’t even know what I expected.

“Crossing this time of the year is pretty easy for humans,” Phichit says cheerily. “Usually it takes a strong constitution or will. Have you taken your shots?”

Is the fabric of reality supposed to _bleed_ glitter like that? “Shots?”

“Vaccines,” says Porky. “Nasty bout of pixie flu going around Marseilles today.” And before I can properly respond to that, he straight up shoves me through the stupid glittery void into Marseilles, but dialled up to eleven and painted with colours that are only perceptible to mantis shrimps and people tripping balls on both weed and acid.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, as the fairies and my useless bodyguard catch up with us in this bad shroom hell dream. Viktor looks like he’s caught between vomiting and swooning dramatically into Porky’s arms. I hope I look like I’m going to fire him as soon as we get back to the normal world.

“The Otherworld,” says Phichit cheerily. “Follow me.”

It’s not like I could’ve done something else, like go try the local ice cream or visit a cat café or something. So I follow him, but not fast enough to un-hear Viktor asking if Porky was free later. I try to turn around and kick him for that, but the laws of physics apparently are on vacation in the Otherworld, so I miss him and almost faceplant on fairy cobblestones instead.

“Well, we’re here. Now tell me what you are,” I say, pretending like I’m only on my knees to search for my dignity somewhere in my shoelaces. Phichit somehow turns even greener. I can almost hear leaves rustling with his every move.

“I’m a nang tani,” he says. “Sort of a dryad, sort of a ghost. Mostly the spirit of a banana tree.”

“I thought those were usually women,” Viktor remarks. God, Viktor, you can’t just ask people if they’re really women.

Phichit purses his lips. “Would it make you more comfortable if I grew some boobs?” he asks.

Viktor considers it, and then shrugs. “Your call,” he says. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“What about you?” I ask Porky, who scrubs a hand through his hair and tries not to look too hard at Viktor. He’s failing spectacularly.

“He’s a tenshi,” Phichit explains. “Angel, I think? Is the closest English word. Makes a great fog for my social media photos.”

“I appreciate our friendship being reduced mostly to me being a fog machine,” Porky deadpans. I like him a little better now.

There’s a ping, and Phichit taps his wrist to show a hologram of some scowling guy with black hair and on-point brows. “You have him?” the guy asks. Phichit points in my direction. “Has he said anything about the Leroy gold? Upstairs is literally breathing down my neck as we speak.”

“I’m not breathing down anyone’s neck,” another voice cuts in. Some man with the most fabulous mane in existence pokes his head into the visual feed. “Chulanont, Katsuki, I need them both at Ys for questioning.”

“Not a problem, boss,” says Phichit, as we approach an extremely psychedelic building. He cuts the feed, and gestures to the door.

“What the hell is Ys?” I ask.

“Where we have the European branch office of the United Network of Supernatural Law Enforcement,” replies Porky. “Like I said, we need to ask you a couple questions.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I sold the gold?” I grumble, hefting the viola closer to my chest. “And how the hell did you catch up with us so fast? No one’s ever even gotten us before.”

“I’m known to spare no detail,” agrees Viktor, waggling his eyebrows at Porky. I’ve never wanted to punch someone more. Porky considers it for a moment, before snapping his fingers and slapping something on the backs of our necks.

The world promptly goes black.

* * *

When I wake up again, I’m sitting in an interrogation room. Thankfully, none of the colours in this room seem out to blind me. In fact, they almost make me feel like I’m blind already.

Porky is sitting across the table from me, flipping through a ridiculously thick file. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I say. “I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s all real,” Phichit says, grinning. “You’ve been on our radar for a while.”

That threw me for a moment. “How long?”

“A while,” replies Porky. “Tell us what you’ve done with the gold.”

“What gold?” I repeat. Porky sighs, and taps his wrist. A holographic video pops up of the interior of the Leroy vault. And me, replacing the bars.

“That gold,” says Porky. “There are wards placed on that vault to detect intruders. They caught you there, like they caught you at the British Museum, the Smithsonian, and the National Art Museum in Beijing.”

“There are magical wards at those museums?” I ask, incredulous.

“Only on specific objects,” replies Phichit.

“Which, I’m guessing, are magical fairy objects.”

“Not necessarily,” says Porky. “The one you lifted in Barcelona wasn’t. The neighbouring ones were, though, which is how we knew it was you.”

“All of those artefacts were stolen in the first place,” I point out. “I’m just repatriating them.”

“So you were repatriating the Leroy gold, too?” asks Phichit, jabbing a thumb towards the video again. I sigh.

“That one was just to stick it in JJ Leroy’s face.” I frown. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“The Leroys are a prominent elven family,” says Phichit.

“Of course he’s an elf. They’re the JJ Leroys of the fairies,” I mutter. “Are you going to prosecute me? Can you even prosecute humans?”

“We’re interested in the Leroys,” replies Phichit, leaning over the table at me. I lean back. “Tell us who you sold the gold to.”

* * *

“ _Really_?” demands Christophe Giacometti a couple minutes later as he pours himself a hefty drink from the hotel minibar. I flop back onto the bed, my head still feeling like it’d recently been on the teacup ride at Disneyland for ten hours straight. Part of me is almost glad to be able to see the Alps in the colours nature intended, but that’s little comfort considering I’m about to be garotted by a gnome.

Because apparently that’s what Giacometti is. A goddamn gnome.

“I was told they’d pay for information on the Leroy gold,” I say in response. “And they wanted to know my fence. I’m guessing they’d pay you, too, if you told them something.”

“You’ve got a tracking sigil now, so I can say ‘fuck the UNSLE’ all I want and Cialdini will definitely hear it,” Giacometti says, before taking a seat in an armchair and downing his drink. “And before you say something, I _told you so_.”

“You said the JJ thing was his stupid _logo_ ,” I point out. “You said you’d find people interested in the ingots.”

“That’s a pretty heavy shift of the blame, kitten,” growls Giacometti. His right eye is twitching. “You wouldn’t want to do that, since my gut instincts have been so vindicated.”

“Could still be wrong,” I mutter, but he has a point. I’m pretty sure I can hear Porky’s shoes tapping against the linoleum back in the Otherworld interrogation room, waiting for someone to give up the location of the Leroy gold. Gold that Giacometti had warned me against fencing, or even stealing in the first place. Talk about forces beyond my imagination indeed.

Next to the door, Viktor rubs gingerly at the sigil on the back of his own neck. “So, a gnome?” he asks Giacometti, who turns to arch an eyebrow at him. “You don’t look it. Aren’t gnomes supposed to be little short men with pointy red hats?”

“That’s a racist caricature,” Giacometti replies drily. “But I _am_ much taller with magic.”

“How tall are you really?” I wonder.

Giacometti grimaces. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says drily, before getting up to pour himself another glass. “Well, I’m not saying anything. Would hate to be implicated. Ever heard of the UNSLE court?”

“Aren’t those in a lot of fairytales?” I ask.

“Then you’d have some idea of what fairies consider justice,” replies Giacometti as he downs his second drink without so much as a grimace. “Human alcohol is so useless.”

“Is there a reason why you work with humans?” I wonder. Giacometti turns, sizes me up again like he’s considering turning me into a suit or something, and then sets down his glass.

“Less drama,” he says after a moment, before looking over at Viktor again. “Stay away from Yuuri Katsuki. I know he’s marked you two; your auras reek of stress and champagne.”

“You know Yuuri?” asks Viktor, his eyes wide.

“I just said to stay away from him,” Giacometti points out. I have to admit, that seems like sound advice considering the eagerness in Viktor’s voice. I thought having a sense of self-preservation was a thing they teach you in bodyguard school, but evidently Viktor’s been cutting classes.

“Seems like there’s some history,” I remark. Giacometti’s expression pinches.

“We’ve met a couple times,” he says after a moment. “He didn’t always work in Vice with Cialdini. I had a couple run-ins with him during his Magical Artefacts days.”

I raise an eyebrow. “He’s caught you fencing magical artefacts before.”

“I don’t know where the gold’s gone,” retorts Giacometti. “But I can tell you one thing: I did UNSLE a favour. They don’t actually care about where the gold’s gone, as long as it isn’t funding the sale of fairy tech to humans. And on _that_ I have absolutely no information at all.”

I’m not sure what to make of his words, nor does Viktor, it seems, but Porky seems to have heard enough because there’s a ripple, and suddenly we’re back in the Otherworld, stumbling against the wall of the interrogation room. Porky’s hands are folded behind him; he seems intensely focused on the wall in front of him.

“You two are a dead end,” he says after a moment, his face still turned towards what I’m guessing is a one-way mirror into the other room. “Tell me where you need to go and we’ll see it that you two are brought there.”

I look at Viktor, whose answer is probably going to be something stupid, and I try to beat him to the punch. “I have an address.”

“Let’s get coffee before we go,” Viktor chips in. See? Something stupid.

* * *

“Don’t really appreciate being called a dead end, by the way,” I tell Porky as we sit in a rooftop café in Otherworld Paris, which is pretty much the same as any Parisian café except more psychedelic. In the distance I can barely make out the Eiffel tower, but it hurts to look at even from here. Viktor stirs his espresso, and I’m reminded of the old fairytale warnings not to drink anything from the fey. I kinda want to hit him.

“Eating something here just makes it easier for you to return,” says Porky, because I guess apparently he can read minds or something. Now that he’s sorta off-duty, he’s a lot more relaxed, having swapped out his catsuit for a big fuzzy jumper and jeans.

“And I’d love to return sometime,” says Viktor, looking me dead in the eye as he drinks the fairy espresso.

“You just keep making me want to fire you,” I mutter.

“Can’t. Your granddad’s the one who hired me.”

I flip him the bird. He smiles widely, and bats his eyes at Porky, who flushes and looks away.

“Well, I still have to memory wipe you both before I return you to the human world,” he says, looking down at his fingernails. “You can take your time, though.” That bit is directed at Viktor, whose eyes light up like it’s friggin’ Christmas. I pretend to retch into my hand. He sticks out his tongue.

“Still,” I say, as Viktor flags down a server — some sort of blue pixie — for a croissant, “you guys seem to have been tracking me for a while, since you know about my other stuff, but… you guys didn’t have a problem with it then? So what makes this different?”

Porky sighs and rubs at his temples. “It’s just me. I watched you for a bit when I was in Magical Artefacts. But only then, and now…” he shrugs. “The Leroy vault is sensitive. They’re prominent, but they’re also suspected of funding a weapons trafficking ring. Naturally when their money gets moved, we want to know about it.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, then,” I say. Porky snorts, a fitting sound. “But for what it’s worth, I do have the codes to access the Leroy vault, if you’re interested.”

Porky laughs at that, shakes his head. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that offer,” he says. I roll my eyes.

“What? You might want it. You know, just in case something happens again.”

“You’re planning to steal from him again?” asks Porky archly. I shake my head.

“Nah, not worth it. Besides, I just needed it for this.” I gesture to the case next to me. Phichit had returned it to me when we were released, and thankfully the viola inside hasn’t been damaged from being taken into some parallel fairyland. Porky looks at the case with a raised eyebrow.

“You stole fairy gold to buy a Stradivarius,” he remarks.

“It’s a very nice Stradivarius,” I point out.

“They usually are,” agrees Porky. “But why go to all that trouble?”

“It’s my friend’s birthday,” I reply. Beka doesn’t need to know the trouble I’ve gone to. He also probably won’t expect me showing up at his Parisian hotel with a birthday present today. It’s technically across the street from here, but it’s also technically in the human world. I do wonder if we can see him from here, though. Which is a little creepy.

“You must really appreciate him, then,” says Porky. I can distinctly hear Viktor sigh into his croissant. I wasn’t aware my bodyguard was actually the same mental age as me.

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, trying to fan away the flames that have just erupted on my face. A dog comes trotting by, his paws hovering just inches off the ground. His owner, a lime green goblin of some kind, is chatting avidly on their phone. Porky’s expression pinches a little, but he refocuses on his glass of water. I have no idea what to make of it.

“Sorry we couldn’t be more helpful,” Viktor says over the remnants of his croissant.

Porky shakes his head. “I didn’t expect much,” he admits. “But knowing Giacometti’s your fence is helpful. We’ve been tracking his whereabouts whenever we can, but he only deals with humans and human-made objects mostly to throw us off. Pretending to be human isn’t a crime, and humans are out of our jurisdiction.”

“I’m betting the Leroys are going to be after me,” I mutter, “especially if they caught me on their wards.”

“They’ll have to go through human courts for that,” replies Porky, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t think magic wards hold up well in human court, do you?”

I can’t help but laugh at that. Viktor’s eyes are sparkling. God, he’s found his soulmate or something. I don’t think I can take any more of it.

“You know what, you can just stay with him,” I tell him. “I’m going to go give Beka his present. I’ll book my own flight back to Saint Petersburg.”

“I really shouldn’t leave you alone,” Viktor says, but he looks sidelong at Porky, whose cheeks are a disgustingly fetching shade of pink.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not a kid. I can handle myself,” I say, before nearly tripping over the chair as I stand up from the terrace table. “Come on, wipe my brain and send me back, Katsucky.”

Viktor looks up at the technicolour sky with an expression I recognise well on him. “Teenagers,” he mutters. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri —”

To his credit, Porky giggles. “I’ve heard worse,” he says, before stepping up and surveying me over the edge of his glasses. “I’ve got my eyes on you, kitten.”

“That’s creepy, Porky,” I retort, and then the world goes black.

* * *

You ever have such a stressful and confusing day that you sorta end up dissociating two steps away from your own front door? I’m doing that right now, but this isn’t even my front door. It’s a hotel door. I think it’s Paris. I could’ve sworn I was in Marseilles just a minute ago.

I put down my hand. Apparently I’d just finished knocking. The door swings open, and Beka pokes his head out. Right, I had come to visit Beka, to deliver the case in my hands. The hard-won viola. I remember picking it up at the auction house in Marseilles, and the strangely easy bank heist that funded that purchase. But a lot of what happens after the auction house is a bit of a painful blur.

“Yura?” Beka tilts his head, opening the door a little wider. I see his old viola in its case, lying on the table. “What are you doing here?”

Why the hell does my head feel like it’s been grated like a block of cheese? I try to remember what happened before I got to this door, and all I can dredge up is Viktor telling me he’s going to throw people off my trail so I can catch a train from Marseilles up to Paris. Which I guess is why he’s not here. I’m not sure how any of it works out timeline-wise.

“This?” I ask, waving the case. “It’s for you.” I push it towards him. “Happy birthday.”

He blinks, takes the case from me, stepping aside to let me in. I try to remember the details of how I got up here from Marseilles, and all I get is a strange, long blank. Nothing. My head hurts harder. Otabek pushes up a chair and I collapse into it.

“Drink?” he asks, holding up a bottle of Orangina.

I take it with a sigh. Of course he wouldn’t give me anything harder for this. For all of Beka’s black leather and motorcycles he’s really a softie down below. And doesn’t need to know his best friend robs banks and museums on a regular basis.

Beka takes the case and opens it, eyes widening at the viola. “That’s a Strad,” he says quietly, voice reverent as he plucks one of the strings, runs his hands along the bow. “How did you…?”

“There was an auction in Marseilles,” I say. “I’m not getting you anything for at least the next two birthdays, okay?”

Beka cradles the viola to him like a newborn kitten. “I wouldn’t blame you for not getting me presents for the rest of my life,” he retorts. “This is amazing, Yura.”

I check my phone. Viktor hasn’t texted since this morning. You’d think he’d have something to say considering that he’s working for me. “No prob,” I mutter, but when I look up, Beka’s eyes are narrowed.

“What’s that on your neck?” he asks, pointing his bow towards me.

“What?” I reach up and grab the back of my neck, feeling nothing there.

“It’s a mark,” says Beka. “Did you get tattooed and I wasn’t there? Were you using a fake ID again?”

I scowl at him. “I told you I wouldn’t until —” but he breaks me off by pushing my head down and taking a picture of my nape. I grab the phone from him immediately, pulling up a photo  of an intricate blue snowflake. “What the —”

There’s a knock at the door again. Beka and I go to answer, opening it to see Viktor arm-in-arm with some Japanese man in a big jumper. He’s scowling at something on his phone. Viktor is more smiley than I’ve seen in ages.

“Yurio!” he exclaims. “Yuuri’s got a new lead on the Leroy gold! Come with us!”

What the _fuck_.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for [Morning Sun, Moonless Night](https://yoifantasyzine.tumblr.com/) in collaboration with [Morgen](https://morgen-huoreart.tumblr.com). It's a thinly-veiled Artemis Fowl AU, where the UNSLE is roughly the LEP, but even more international with different supernatural creatures from different countries.
> 
> Scream about YOI with me on [Tumblr](https://omgkatsudonplease.tumblr.com)!


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